


Any Other Night – 9/9 – Facing the Past

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [9]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-06
Updated: 2007-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 9/9 – Facing the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _“We all make mistakes, I suppose. But I don’t make the same ones twice.”_

 

.9 Facing the Past

 

            “Have you thought about what you’re going to say to Bennet?” Click. Click. Click.

            “I was hoping to think about it as little as possible, actually. –Stop that.” Mohinder reached over and took the remote from Sylar’s hand, frowning at his inability to stick to one channel. 

            Sylar glanced over at him, smirking a little. He nudged Mohinder with his shoulder from where they sat, side by side, against the headboard of one of the twin beds, toes under blankets. “So are we just wasting time here until you think of what you _will_ say?”

            Settling the station on the news, Mohinder turned the volume down a little. “I’m not wasting time. He won’t even be at the safehouse. And I don’t really… know exactly what I’m going to say, if I have to say anything. I seriously doubt I should tell him. He’d prefer to kill you. It’s not as if he’ll understand.” Mohinder shook his head, eyes on the sheets, as he considered the very thought of trying to convey this relationship to Bennet. Impossible. They could barely understand it themselves, in spite of all the discussion during their trip between bouts of tearing away clothing.

            “We could keep running,” Sylar offered, lifting his eyebrows to seek approval of such an idea. “It hasn’t been hard...” An extended roadtrip? Sylar liked the idea of getting to draw out moments like these, the ones that brought them together.

            Again, Mohinder shook his head. He pushed Sylar’s shoulder back playfully with his own, bumping it in return. “Maybe not hard for you. But I certainly won’t be spending the rest of my life motel hopping and searching for diners that serve vegetables that haven’t been frozen for four weeks.”

           “Then you can’t tell him,” Sylar replied simply, resting his hand over Mohinder’s. “I don’t really want you to, anyway. If you do, he’ll just use you to get to me. It’s dangerous. Just don’t tell him. We’ll think of something. One phone call to tell him you made it, and then we’ll camp out there for a few days and figure out our next move. He won’t even know. You’re right, it’s better that way.”

            Mohinder sighed softly, fingers curling beneath that warm hand. “You make it sound so easy, but I know it won’t be. Life’s never that easy. I’ve learned that well enough by now.” The words were layered with an old bitterness. Mohinder felt reasonably justified in thinking that good things didn’t simply fall into his lap. The catch was always there. He just had to find the situation for them with the least dangerous catch.

            This time, Sylar sighed, and it was a sigh of light frustration. “I don’t care what Bennet has to say. I don’t care. I don’t want his help, I don’t want anything to do with him. But I’ll protect you, Mohinder. From him, if I have to,” Sylar stated, expression turning serious as he watched the other man’s disconcerted face. He reached over and brushed back one of Mohinder’s black curls from his eyes. “I know you probably don’t need it— you’ve made it this far on your own— but Bennet, the Company... if they know you’re helping me, there’s no telling-”

            Mohinder drew his hands up over his own face with a small groan and took in a deep breath for a moment. “I know, I know… I just...” He leaned back, finally, giving another sigh. “You’re right. I just shouldn’t say anything. We should just disappear. Find a way out of the country. Find somewhere nice and obscure to continue my research and-” And what? Seek to study subjects that could scarcely be tracked with ease outside of the United States? Hope that Sylar would never turn to the wrong side again and take advantage of his work in the process? Mohinder glanced back up at Sylar, falling into silence.

            “I know what you’re thinking,” the man replied quietly. Sylar could see Mohinder’s distrust easily now. In spite of how close they’d become, of the great leaps they’d taken even back in New York, Mohinder still persisted in hiding and ignoring his work for the sake of safety. But safety from Sylar’s unpredictable, dangerous nature had been scarcely achieved, last night had proven. Up until the night’s self-defeat, perhaps, he’d not had any reason to trust Sylar, to let him back into that sphere of his life. But Sylar wanted to change that. If he tried to kill again he’d only meet failure, he had discovered. He’d lose everything they’d broken down in themselves in order to establish what they now had together. Sylar’s jaw tightened a little. He wanted, of all things, strangely, to give Mohinder hope. To offer him as much faith as he had shown to Sylar.

            “Don’t think those thoughts,” he insisted, “I can really help you this time. My gift, and yours…” Sylar spoke softer, but in an oddly firm, resolute manner. Mohinder had been right all along, hadn’t he? About the chances he’d missed out on to use this ability properly… About the opportunities he’d never had. Maybe there was a purpose; one that Chandra couldn’t show Gabriel Gray. Chandra had never been the right one. But now, Mohinder- he could offer Sylar the purpose he’d never had. With that in mind, there was earnestness, a building honesty full of conviction behind Sylar’s voice, now. He had to try, even if it failed. Even if the world was as terrifying as Mohinder had told him. Had Gabriel Gray ever been this sure of himself? 

            “The Company will keep hurting people, whether or not Bennet’s a part of their plans,” Sylar continued, taking Mohinder’s hand again in his own and squeezing it. “I told you once I wanted to help them, those people out there. I want to mean it now. Give me a chance. We can retreat into some obscure place- just like you want- work on things from there until we get it figured out. Then we’ll come back, ready, Mohinder. Together.”

            The very thought made Sylar’s heart beat wildly. The words didn’t seem foreign, didn’t seem uncomfortable or feigned, anymore. He meant this, just as much as he had when he spoke similar words the first time to Chandra Suresh. Only this man he couldn’t see himself crushing so easily. It made Sylar as excited as it did frightened to want to believe in this feeling again. In something more than murder.

            For once, Mohinder was beginning to share that sentiment. He was weary of the chase, with him on the running end. He’d had all his faith in others torn away by Sylar once, and now Mohinder grew tired of being the constant cynic because of it. Even Sylar seemed to show the desire to carry on, to move on. Mohinder wanted so very badly to trust again. And right now, Sylar was the only one he could trust to the extent that, if things went wrong, at least he would understand the man’s motivations perfectly. A cautious optimism was not lost on Mohinder. Sylar’s thoughts, his hopes, carried Mohinder into his own.

            “…Do you think we can? Do you think it’s possible?” Mohinder asked, that budding enthusiasm winning over the misgivings they took for granted. Mohinder tilted his head, as if considering the option all over again. Sylar, Patient Zero. A test subject, a guide to the future, a lover? He nodded before Sylar could answer, swept up suddenly by the possibilities. They could do this. No Bennet over his shoulder or Company threatening his life. Even so, he’d have the only man they couldn’t catch protecting him. The odds, though still not the best, were in Mohinder’s favor. “Alright. We’ll do it. We’ll leave. A few days to plan, and then we’ll find a way out of the country.”

            Sylar’s expression lit slowly, and he leaned forward, catching Mohinder’s lips in a brief, promising kiss.

 

 

            It was not until eight, long after the sun had fallen and dinner had passed, that they bothered to finish the last hours of the journey. Sylar stared at the map under the frail light of the car’s overhead bulb, eyes staring at Monteith, a subtle and insignificant dot among a sea of spots and veins now. He folded the paper over once, then once more, and stuffed it in the glove compartment. “How long?”

            “We’re almost there. It’s supposed to be right off this exit,” Mohinder replied, flicking on the flashing arrow to indicate his right turn. There was an inevitable feeling of anticipation in him now. The future may have looked difficult until now, but it didn’t look dark anymore. There was something he looked forward to, and Mohinder had never expected it to be what it had become. 

            The house was a small one, dark and empty at a dead-end surrounded by trees. It stood only one floor high with low-set windows and shutters that looked black at night. The nearest house was half a mile or more away, and that suited Mohinder just fine. He pulled into the driveway, turned off the headlights, and took a deep breath. Finally. It was the end of another road trip, it seemed. Another road trip right before the beginning of a new one. Pulling out the keys, Mohinder unlocked his door and stepped out onto the cold concrete. 

            “Looks charming,” Sylar said with mild sarcasm as he closed the car door, shooting a little look at Mohinder. “But I’ve been in worse places, I suppose. The sewers, for example.” Sylar stuck his hands in his pockets and started up the walk, meeting Mohinder’s steps. 

            Mohinder chuckled and shook his head. “Safe doesn’t mean ‘fancy.’ And if you survived a night in the New York sewers and time in my apartment then this place won’t be half bad, now will it?” Mohinder was told the door would be unlocked for him, so he made no hesitation to wrap his hand about the handle and push it in.

            The strangest feeling came over Sylar as he followed behind; it was like having one’s head dunked in water, all the senses muffled and bent into something that wasn’t quite _right._ The world suddenly felt distant, utterly out of grasp. His ears struggled to listen and-the only sound he heard in miles was the click of a gun being cocked. “Mohinder-!” Sylar started in alarm, jumping ahead of the man and holding out an arm defensively. He peered in the darkness from side to side, ears straining but hearing nothing but his own heart and Mohinder’s breathing. “Who’s there?” he demanded strongly.

            Mohinder blinked and nearly stumbled backwards a step. “Sylar, what-” 

            The lights flickered to life. 

            One familiar figure, another one unknown to him.

            Bennet stood across the room, in his usual suit with his hands folded over one another before him. The glasses marked an identity for the man, an evil that many men and women alike had come to fear but hardly understand. Sylar understood.

            The second man was one Sylar was not familiar with. He was neither the doctor of his torture (quite securely disposed of, now), nor a face he had seen before his capture, as he saw no one on that night. The man was of dark skin and strong build, such that Sylar would assume him of African descent, were it not for the subtle angularity to his features. Either way, he was the enemy. This Sylar gathered from the way his ears had become deaf as any other man’s and the way his mind could not snatch the handgun held level to his head by the stranger.

            “A set-up,” Sylar confirmed, voice falling into dark ranges. Mohinder’s eyes widened. This was the voice of the serial killer. Cheated, resentful, prepared to do anything.

            “Gabriel Gray, as I live and breathe,” Bennet said casually, walking several steps until he graced the center of the room, voice of false sweetness and joviality. He smiled like they were old friends, but the tug at the corners of his mouth was a sardonic one.

            Sylar’s eyes narrowed and his jaw grit tightly. “I believe I left you breathing last time, yes. Everyone makes mistakes, don’t they?” His arm pushed Mohinder further behind him protectively. Mohinder swallowed.

            A mild smirk crossed Bennet’s features. “We all do, I suppose. But I don’t make the same ones twice. You’ll find your abilities don’t work around my friend here; you would be wise not to make any sudden moves, Mr. Gray.”

            Sylar seemed to twitch at that name, and Mohinder’s eyes moved between each of the men, the weight of his mistake beginning to form a thick fog of dread over his mind. He could see from where he stood the expression on Sylar’s face, that profound abhorrence for this man. He could see the murder in Sylar’s gaze, the lust for revenge and some twisted form of justice. Mohinder could practically taste the craving for blood.

            “You’re not taking me again, Bennet,” Sylar continued. “I’ve heard you don’t even have Company backing for your little experiments anymore, now do you? You couldn’t hold me if you tried.”

            Bennet’s eyes trailed from Sylar to Mohinder, then back again. He adjusted the glasses on his face. “I don’t need the Company to deal with the likes of you, Gabriel. I’ll have to thank Dr. Suresh properly later for bringing you right to me.”

            The sharpness of the look Sylar shot towards Mohinder was accusing, and it made Mohinder take in a gasp of breath unexpectedly, eyes widening. Sylar actually… Of course he believed Mohinder was capable of it. Of course he operated in life, as he always had, under the assumption that everything he was told was a lie. Mohinder’s brows knit slowly, and he gave the barest shake of his head, breathing the word ‘no’ as soft as a prayer. It was then, gazing into those doubtful eyes, that Mohinder realized this was not Sylar’s problem to deal with at all. He lifted his gaze to address to Bennet.

            “That’s not what this is about, Bennet. We have to talk.” Mohinder said firmly, stepping out from behind Sylar’s protective stance. “You and I. Alone.” 

            A long, uneasy silence passed between all parties. Deliberation, they knew, was dangerous. Finally, Bennet nodded, somber.

            The warning look from Bennet to the Haitian was clear enough. It consisted of unspoken confirmations of suspicions Bennet hadn’t been willing to consider before. He gave a small jerk of his head to Mohinder, motioning to a doorway into the next room. “Keep an eye on Gray. If he so much as speaks, you know what to do.” The Haitian nodded in return, and Bennet made his way to the door.

            Mohinder took a moment to glance between the two as well, and finally he breathed in deeply. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll take care of this,” he murmured in a low voice to Sylar, touching his fingertips just barely to the man’s elbow in a covert gesture. He followed after Bennet, feeling his heart pound in his chest and hearing thoughts whizzing, muddled and confounded, through his brain. Once he was through the doorway, he shut the door after them. It was an empty room, but that was fine. Mohinder didn’t feel much like sitting.

            “You have a lot of explaining to do, Suresh.” Bennet spoke first, expression hardly the impartial demeanor it had been before. His words bit, caustic in spite of his attempts to keep civil. “You’ve brought him right to us- let us deal with him properly.”

            “Properly?” Mohinder squinted in disbelief at the man, shaking his head. “What do you consider to be ‘properly’? I didn’t bring him here for you. This wasn’t some sort of plan!” Mohinder could feel his voice rising before he heard it; the gathering tension was impossible to miss.

            Bennet frowned deeply. “You of all people should understand the danger involved with associating with that man. He’s a murderer- a _serial killer._ This is bigger than what happened at Kirby Plaza. You aren’t safe any more than anyone else. Did you think you could handle him all on your own? Fool him into being one of the good guys?”

            “I’m not _fooling_ him into anything!” Mohinder nearly shouted, resisting the urge to throw his hands up in frustration. “You don’t understand. He’s a part of my research. I need him to continue my work. He’s essential.” It sounded like a horribly weak excuse to give, but something along the lines of ‘I’m also sleeping with him’ seemed rather inappropriate at the moment. Mohinder stuck to the half-truths first.

            This time, Bennet was the one to let anger bubble in his voice. “You’re an amateur compared to the Company, and even _we_ couldn’t control him! What do you think you can do? I may not be working for them anymore, but we have people who can do more than you! You can still continue your research, through us. We have resources, Suresh. And a plan. Think logically for God’s sake! A man like that, running around able to kill anyone he pleases? He tried to kill my daughter! Let us take care of it and you won’t have anything to be concerned about,” Bennet insisted, palms open and pleading defiantly, angrily.

            Mohinder’s scowl deepened. “I won’t do it. I won’t give him to you to torture. You’d kill him this time, regardless of his ‘value’ to you or to me. You don’t care if he gets killed in the process at all. He’s not a lab rat, he’s a person with potential! I won’t let you snuff out a life without knowing if it’s destined for greatness! That’s not your decision or anybody else’s!”

            Eyes widening, Bennet floundered for a rational explanation for Mohinder’s behavior. He could reason, logically, none. He didn’t want to draw the conclusions already suggested to him. “You can’t be serious. Think of who you’re talking about! The lives he’s taken! Sylar isn’t-”

            “I am very serious, Bennet. I will stand between you and Sylar if I have to,” Mohinder seethed, fingers curling into fists.

            Bennet’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “There are safer places he could be, Suresh.”

            “Are there? With you?” Mohinder scoffed. “I’ve heard what your kind does to people like him- your people only perpetuate his urge to kill. If it were me, I would have hunted you down a long time ago. He shows ample restraint by comparison, doesn’t he?” Mohinder replied heatedly.

            Teeth clenching, Bennet tried to restrain his words. “I’m not a part of that company anymore.”

            “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you’re not capable, and it certainly doesn’t mean you have any more reason to protect him instead of kill him. I know where your interests lie, Bennet.”

            The ice of their gazes met, locked in a battle of wills and unspoken threats.

            “There’s something more here, isn’t there?” Bennet finally conceded, the pieces slowly fitting into the places he hadn’t wanted them. What the Haitian had told him… The closeness they exhibited... Bennet straightened his posture slightly, taking in a slow breath. “There’s something between you two, something stopping you from making the right decision. You’re putting so many in _danger_.”

            Mohinder’s jaw tightened, but his expression remained deathly serious, unafraid now of what answers he might have to divulge. “He can live without killing. I know he can.” Mohinder finally breathed out, feeling a weight settle on his chest.

            “You expect me to show mercy?” Bennet asked incredulously.

            Mohinder simply nodded. “Yes, I do. Not to him… but to the people he could have murdered while he lay sleeping in my bed instead.”

            Bennet seemed to flinch from those words, a leap of faith in them required. One he felt could not take. It was all too irrational, too unbelievable. “Do you really think he’s going to stop? Do you think this is over, Mohinder? It won’t be. He can’t take back the things he’s done! You have no idea what you’re-”

            “This is something beyond your understanding,” Mohinder stated tersely. 

            Their eyes met fiercely again, but this time Bennet looked away, weighing his options. As inconceivable as it was, Mohinder was an asset he didn’t want to kill to order to get to Sylar. Vendettas had a place, had a time, and now Mohinder had stolen it from beneath him. To Bennet, Mohinder was the essential one. And now, without the Company backing, Bennet didn’t have the leverage he needed to steal Sylar from beneath Mohinder. If he took his memories, perhaps… But no, Mohinder was too invested in Sylar for that. Even if he didn’t kill him, only took Sylar’s memories, Mohinder would never help him, never give him anything. Bennet knew that he needed Mohinder’s research far more than he needed Sylar’s death. One, he hoped, might result in the other. But it was a hope at best, one that would take time. Bennet turned his back in disgust, wincing as he realized the type of decision he had to make.

            “What will you do? What could you _possibly_ do, wanted in New York and by the FBI? You’re not making any sense. Do you realize how dangerous a suggestion like this is?”

            “If I hadn’t considered the consequences already, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Mohinder confirmed, voice grave. He felt a sudden twinge of anxiety, then, a worry over leaving Sylar so long in the next room. Would they return to find the Haitian dead? Would the Haitian take the next step? Or would Sylar be as he was, standing there and letting a quiet fear consume him that Mohinder was busy taking back all his promises at the threat of the man with the horn-rimmed glasses?

            “We’re getting out of here. Doing my research elsewhere. And if anyone ends up dead…” Mohinder held his breath for a moment and then lowered his voice. “It will be on my hands. My responsibility. I’ll kill him myself, if I have to.” The words made Mohinder feel oddly ill to his stomach, and he struggled not to let it show on his face.

            Bennet was quiet for a long, long time. Contemplating. Justifying. It made him angry, offended, even, to have to concede to this. Against all his better judgment, he had to choose his chance at helping the masses with Mohinder’s research over his revenge, even if he believed helping the masses could easily destroy them as well. But these were the types of decisions he had vowed from the start to make in life.

            Sighing almost inaudibly, Bennet lowered his head. “The Company has a longer reach than you think. You won’t be safe here. Can you get out of the country?”

            Mohinder took in a slow breath, trying not to let a feeling of relief overcome him too soon. “Direct me to the right man to get the papers and I promise you I won’t disappear completely from your radar. Just like now, you’ll be contacted. Updated. But we’ll be far from you and your home.” It was the best option Mohinder could see- using Bennet to escape once more, contacting him when it suited them. Even if he hated to keep a link to someone he felt he couldn’t completely trust, Mohinder recognized now more than ever the need for compromises for his sake. For both their sakes. Bennet was still a necessity.

            Turning to look back at Mohinder, Bennet’s stoic expression spoke all it had to of his misgivings over this situation. “It’s decided, then,” he said simply, walking past Mohinder and opening the door. He reentered the room, eyes falling on the battle of wills being waged between the glare of Sylar’s vivid eyes and the Haitian’s indifferent seriousness.

            “Come on. We’re going.” Bennet nodded to the man.

            The Haitian regarded him with a questioning look, gun remaining focused on their target. “We are to do nothing?” he asked. “What about-”

            “I said we’re going. We’re done here.” Bennet straightened his tie, watching the look Sylar aimed towards him. Pure, unadulterated malice passed between them.

            “Mr. Bennet, I could-” The offer of an easy solution passed the Haitian’s mind, but Bennet held up a hand. Mohinder stepped forward and to Sylar’s side, eyeing them warily.

            “There’s no need,” Bennet insisted, stepping around the two slowly and walking towards the door. “Come on.” The thought of releasing this man still nagged at the back of his mind. Even as the Haitian lowered his weapon and placed it in his hip holster, Bennet wondered what sort of mistake he was making. He was not a man made of trust; quite the opposite. He certainly had none for the murderer he’d faced off with himself. Hadn’t he seen this before? They thought they could control Sylar once, the Company. And Suresh… The more important question was whether not a man like him could be persuaded by Sylar to the wrong ends.

            Like a reflex, doubt overcame him, and Bennet reached out and snatched the handgun from the holster at the Haitian’s hip in smooth motion, spinning around to face Sylar’s visage dead-on with the barrel. He cocked the hammer, eyes narrowing-

            But it was Mohinder’s face that ducked in between the two and stood, dividing impulse and revenge, arms stretched wide in protection of the taller man. Sylar made a startled noise in his throat.

            “If you pull that trigger, everything will die with him. All of it,” Mohinder stated steadily. His heart beat wildly, but he strained to keep his voice steady. “You don’t have to put your trust in him. Put it in me, Bennet. We’ll be as far away from here as we can get. I promise you that. Your family is safe.”

            There was a fury that traveled through Bennet’s features, a clench of his teeth and pursing of his lips that spoke of how sorely he wanted to let the bullet pass right through them both to fulfill his wish. But instead he lowered the gun. He handed it to the Haitian without looking anywhere but Mohinder’s sober face.

            “Three days. We’ll be back in three days with the papers. Then you’re nobody,” Bennet informed sharply. He turned and opened the front door, stalking out without another word. The Haitian followed, Sylar’s deafness continuing until the sound of their exit was long gone.

            Mohinder’s breath came out in a shaky uncertainty, hand moving to his forehead. He’d taken an incredible risk, just now. Three weeks ago, he couldn’t have even fathomed it. When he felt hands on his hips he jumped, as if he’d forgotten Sylar was there at all.

            “…What kind of deal did you make?” he asked, leaning in close to Mohinder’s ear. There was genuine concern in his voice, and Mohinder turned around to watch it play across his face as well. “He’s going to get our papers to leave the country. He’s going to leave us be.”

            Sylar’s features knit in skepticism, but there were few other possibilities laid out before them. “That’s what he says, but…”

            “I know,” Mohinder murmured, rubbing his face for a second and sighing. “But we’re out of other options. It’s the best I could do.”

            The look of weariness and distress on Mohinder’s face made Sylar feel something quite different than his current alarm. Would he call it affection? Was this feeling rising in his chest affection? Or appreciation? Some deep, warm feeling of…

            “You were really going to take that bullet,” Sylar spoke it like a question, unsure of itself.

            Mohinder stared up at that face, so plagued by mixed emotions and doubts. He smiled faintly, then. It was enough. “You stepped in front of me first, didn’t you? I told you these things were going to come around. Killing you, protecting you.”

            Sylar held his breath, contemplation coming forth. He distrusted even himself in that instant. He, too, felt then that somehow Mohinder was going to make a mistake. That this wasn’t right, and it never could be. This period of basking in love, in trust, in sex, it wasn’t really going to last, was it? Surely, Mohinder would realize soon enough that they couldn’t be anything and he’d give up on Sylar. “Bennet’s right, you know.” Sylar murmured. “I can’t take back the things I’ve done. I might not even if I could. The past-”

            “The past needs to stay where it is. I’m more concerned with the future,” Mohinder replied succinctly, confidence pure and plainly stated. He put a hand to Sylar’s arm, breaking the tension between them with that touch and another small smile. “Let’s take it easy. We’ll talk about where to go from here, and then we’ll sleep. I don’t trust them anymore than you do, but we need their help. At least we aren’t doing this alone.”

            The words struck Sylar in a way he hadn’t expected. It was a poignant feeling that Mohinder’s faith elicited. Speechless, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe for a second. All his fleeing, all his hiding, all his killing, even, had been alone. He’d had someone to return home to if he so chose, once. But now even that he had destroyed. Sylar could try again, he realized once more. Just as he’d spoken the words earlier that evening to Mohinder, telling him that they could do this research together, they could manage… It made him feel alive, almost giddy inside, to think that his and Mohinder’s concept of ‘together’ was finally the same, even if that idea needed to evolve in Sylar’s mind over their time together.

            A handsome smile came to grace his lips. Sylar lifted a hand and touched it to Mohinder’s face. He’d didn’t speak at first, just let the understanding pass over him and sink in. Finally, it occurred to him. 

            “We need to start over. Not as Gabriel, not as Zane, not as the naive scientist,” Sylar concluded.

            Mohinder blinked at that, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “I’m… not sure I follow.”

            Suddenly, a hand was stuck out before him, invading the space between them. Sylar extended it in the familiar fashion of a handshake between strangers, and made his expression comfortably normal.

            “My name is Sylar. I’m a former watchmaker, relatively boring compared to most. In the past six months I tried to change my life for the better, and ended up… in a dark place, hurting a lot of people.” Sylar hesitated, considering his next words. “But I think… that from hereon out, I’d like to change that and try again. If only someone would give me the chance.” 

            A meeting, between strangers. The real beginning they’d never had the chance to have.

            Mohinder stood stunned at his words. But whether or not he was shocked by the candidness of them or the almost silly manner with which they were presented, one couldn’t tell. It took him a second, but finally Mohinder began to smile. He held out his hand and took Sylar’s in it, shaking them once.

            “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Mohinder Suresh. I’ve spent the last many months of my life hunting down a past best left behind me and faced harsh lessons that have made me a more cynical man. I’m a geneticist, and a realist, but… I think I’ve still got a few dreams left in me to chase. I’m a big fan of second chances.” Mohinder paused, a suddenly amused look crossing his face. “I have some wild theories, and you know, I think you just might be a part of them.”

            A small grin touched Sylar’s features. “Well, given that we’ve arrived, strangers, in this house in the middle of nowhere, I think we should make the best of a potentially awkward situation, don’t you?”

            “Certainly.” Mohinder nodded, releasing Sylar’s hand.

            “And being that I think everything about our meeting was meant to be as uncomfortable for us as possible, I should inform you- and apologize- but, in this house, there’s only one bed.”

            White teeth flashed in a broad, amused smile. Mohinder shook his head once, regarding Sylar with an affectionate look of understanding. 

            “You know, I think I’ll manage.”

 

 

            Weeks had passed, but Preston couldn’t help himself; he’d sit at his desk, and when paperwork for the last gang or petty thief seemed too dauntingly tedious, he let his eyes trail away. He let his mind wander with them, and found it inevitably on his desk drawer. He’d glance about the room, at the other officers and detectives mulling about the station, and slowly lean back, pulling the brass handle towards him. 

            Fishing through a few folders, a few forms, Preston’s hands always found the two same items. He lifted the first to his lap, shielded in part by his desk, and held the photo, fingers slipping the paperclip away from its right-hand corner. 

            Gabriel Gray looked the same as he did every time. He smiled tenderly, his mother moreso. He smiled absently, eyes fixed on a camera long forgotten in an innocence never rediscovered. He still wore his old sweater vest on his torso and a pair of thick glasses on his face. Preston was forced to squint a little, as if it were difficult to see the murder that he knew lurked beneath such a disarming visage.

            Gray. Suresh. Bennet. These names had never again crossed his lips out loud, not after a long, wearying discussion with his superior those weeks before. He still wore a badge, and that had ended up more important. Preston shuffled the photograph behind the next item; this was the one he always looked at the longest.

            A postcard. 

            A postcard of a seemingly arbitrary place, somewhere he’d never been in Iowa. Somewhere where he knew no one, and where he was sure that no one knew him.

            His name, prefaced by ‘Detective,’ was written in thick, black marker on the back. To its left sat a single word, slanted in casual script and punctuated with a period.

            ‘ _Goodbye._ ’

            Preston asked himself again and again what it meant. He had asked himself for nights if he could be sure it connected to his one shot at doing real good in the world. But he could only come up with one solution: Iowa had been the end of something. Of someone. Whether or not he knew it at the time, Preston had played a part in that. He would have liked to think that this was not the mocking of a serial killer or the game of a genetic genius.

            Preston wanted to believe it was a message, less to him, and more to the writer themselves. 

            Someone had started over again, he concluded, and, strangely, Preston had been the only one of their past left to say a farewell to.

            Preston slowly slid the photograph and the postcard back into the drawer of his desk.

            Saying farewell. Starting again. Forgetting the past.        

            He resented not being able to return the favor. 

 

 

            “Number of tickets?”

            “Two, please. One way."   
  


  
  



End file.
